


Origins

by Abyssal_Paladin



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II
Genre: Alonne/OIK if you squint, Leeroy/Arcturus if you squint hard, M/M, OC bearer of the curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 04:56:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18161741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssal_Paladin/pseuds/Abyssal_Paladin
Summary: What exactly happened during and after the duel between Old Iron King and Sir Alonne? Memories of the Old Iron King may reveal exactly just that, when the Bearer of the Curse discovers the crown that lays at the bottom of Brume Tower with the help of a certain paladin. Though what memories it could bring back might not be the ones that he expected.





	Origins

Nobody can defy the King.

Nobody will live to tell the tale of how they came to defy the almighty Iron King. Anyone who did were subjected to be burned inside the brazen bull for their foolishness; a wicked invention that Eygil had created, but a most _delightful_ one that he took quite a bit of joy in using.

Idalion lifted his great hammer. A scowl twisted his face, anger burning in his chest with the intensity of the flames. Alonne had committed a crime the second he thought he could walk away from him, and _nobody_ walks away from him without consequences. The Iron King would always get what he wants, regardless of circumstances.

How _dare_ his second in command think of defying him by leaving.

As he stood there, amidst the corpses of fallen knights who might have at one time been allies, Idalion lifted his gaze towards the double doors at the end of the hallway. The keep had been searched from bottom to top, leaving on only one room left where the former second in command could have been –

The double doors swung open at the slightest force.

The room behind it might have been magnificent if the poisonous rage in his chest wasn’t at a boiling point: immaculately polished floor, and an open balcony letting in the light of the Iron Kingdom from the setting, yet still burningly bright sun outside. His gaze went towards the back of the figure that sat before him.

Alonne’s head slowly rose, Idalion feeling his gaze from behind the covering of his Eastern styled helmet. For the moment there was, there was simply silence between the two of them as the Iron King stepped inside the chamber; the double doors swinging shut behind him with a click of finality that seemed strangely fitting for the situation. Only _one_ of them will walk away today alive, and it will not be the one that had the audacity to leave him.

“Your Majesty.” Clipped words, with nothing in them to signify even a hint of fear. Idalion bared his teeth with a hiss of rage. Even at his final moments, Alonne was a rebel through and through.

“You will _regret_ ever abandoning the honor I have granted upon you, traitor.”

A flourish, the samurai – knight’s blade glimmered in the light of the setting sun. Briefly, the king remembered. The days of them fighting side by side had not left him, memories of Alonne’s blade dancing on the battlefield, as though drawn to the red blood that was being spilled around them, slicing through enemies, removing heads, limbs, all in a tangled mess of body and flesh with precision enough to rival a doctor’s hand.

In a flash of movement almost too quick for even him to take, Alonne had dashed at him, his blade narrowly missing slicing into his side. Idalion bellowed, a yell that sounded not so different from the call of the brazen bull when his victims boiled alive inside of them –

Alonne backstepped, his great hammer crashing into the tiles where he once stood. Cracks crawled through the area of impact, from the immense weight of the weapon as streaks of red iron trickled from the weapon. Had his blow connected, he was very certain, the power behind his hit would have sent him right to the grave he had already dug for himself.

Except when the tip of his _old friend’s_ blade pierced into his side. The finely made eastern weapon had always been dangerous in the grip of the man who knew how to use it so well: digging through the chink in his armor and into his flesh. Warmth quickly blossomed from where he had been struck, even though the pain only registered to his mind as a slight sting not that different from the bite of an insect.

Idalion smiled, a twisted smile that made the muscles in his face ache from how wide it was. Sadistic pleasure coursing through his veins painted an image in his mind, as the king danced between the eastern warrior’s slashes and swings. What he would _relish_ doing to him once he brought him down to his knees, oh yes… Just like those nameless, accursed and wretched undead that brought their blight upon his kingdom, he too would fall before his might, indeed!

One quick step forward and leaning the weight of his body to the right made the blade whistle by his face. Though it also brought him into proximity with Alonne, their weapons interlocked in a show of strength –

The Iron King searched the expressionless helmet. He growled, digging the heels of his iron clad boots into the floor and pressed onwards.

Yet, Alonne wavered. And that alone made the king hesitate.

What had kept the samurai from striking was beyond him, what had he seen that made him stop, even briefly, in his merciless onslaught?

Though of course, the thought only lingered for so long.

Alonne staggered, clenching his side and leaning on the nagamaki in his grip. Idalion smirked: he twirled his own great hammer around and swung, using the weight of his body in the power behind his swing. And thus, the blow of the enchanted hammer crashed _hard_ into Alonne’s ribcage, even through the hum of adrenaline in his head, the sound echoed.

For the first time since he spoke, the eastern warrior grunted, collapsing onto his knees clasping his side. Heh, with that much impact? And the very fact that his armor was made only to stop the slashing blows of eastern blades? Only someone who is immortal might have survived that, for surely it would have broken their ribcage and punctured some quite important organs.

“This is the price that you will pay, Alonne, for your treason, for leaving behind your – “

The Knight only looked up towards him. He coughed, blood dripping from the seam between his helmet and his armor, shuddering as he lifted his signature nagamaki –

Idalion took a step back out of shock. Alonne lifted the blade, albeit with much difficulty, and _plunged it into his own stomach_. The bloodied weapon emerged from the middle of his back, blood pouring out onto the floor.

Sir Alonne shuddered, another stream of blood spilling down the front of his torso. With whatever might be left of his strength, the knight’s gaze locked onto his, unwavering:

It was akin to awakening from a dream, a bloodied dream. Alonne, by whatever power he had left, yanked his blade to the side. The smooth blade sliced through his armor, skin, muscle, spilling hot coils of viscera onto the floor – _dear lords!_

Idalion blinked. His weapon slipped from his grip, clattering onto the floor.

Alonne had been the one to stand with him when he had nothing, Alonne was the man who gave him the means to rise above others, _Alonne_ stood with him when he rose to become the _king of iron_ , from a man with no name nor title to speak of. The eastern knight had come from a land far away and swore fealty without asking for a reward –

It was as though his mind and body were guided by some unseen strings, Idalion shuffled towards the door at the side of the room. The King’s hand hovered before the handle of the door, then suddenly drew back, as though the metal had turned burning hot to the touch. Beneath the ornate crown of black steel and the ruby that sat between his brows, the Iron King suddenly realized something that now hung in the very forefront of his mind.

Whatever was behind that door, he did not want to find out what it might be. With the adrenaline of battle fading away with the bloodlust that had helped him cut his way in here, Idalion heaved, clasping a hand to his mouth as he looked between the door and the corpse of Alonne that now laid on the floor behind him.

 _Gods_.

The blood that poured from the gaping wound in his stomach had pooled underneath his corpse, shimmering on the floor and seeping into the cracks left from where his hammer had made contact with the ground. Surreal, truly surreal… the knight that was Sir Alonne had fallen, fallen to his own weapon, to the techniques that the eastern knight had taught to him –

The door creaked open.

Idalion sucked in a breath. Like a boulder had fallen onto his chest, or a hand waving through the bloodlust that clouded his mind, everything dropped onto his head with realization that finally came just one split second too late.

He screamed, a wordless cry more akin to the dying sound of an animal than a man, collapsing onto his knees.

Even a spear piercing straight through his heart would have been far welcome than this reality.

The throne before his eyes was a simple one, only wrought of fine wood and silver plating now faded with age, decorated with bands of iron that were crude imitations of silver. Yet a throne so familiar: the one he had sat upon when he was naught more than a small lord, with a kingdom not even worthy to be mentioned in the books of history.

The same throne that he had sat on when Alonne knelt before him, offering his aide, his strength.

_By the gods, what had he done?!_

Shame, guilt, all of them turned into iron claws that tore through his armor, straight for his heart. Yet what had happened had already happened, and not even all the iron in the world would bring back the death of the friend that had been entirely of his own fault and doing. Idalion screamed, the sound echoing through the keep.

“ _Forgive me!_ ”

Only silence.

The Iron King wept where he knelt, bitter tears spilling down his face, dripping onto his ornate, bloodstained armor. He cried out again, broken pleas for forgiveness and for the gods to take his own soul instead, anything in exchange for the one knight who had stayed until his own foolishness pushed him away.

“I’m sorry..!”

Silence, stifling silence.

With that, the memory faded into nothing.

The wandering warrior drew his hand back from the crown, buried amidst piles of ash. His deep green eyes turned from the crown, then to his own gloved hand: that was why he felt this tower, covered and ash and forgotten by time, was so familiar.

His arm fell to his side.

“Arcturus? Are you alright?” The voice behind him shook him from his thoughts.

Arcturus Ebner turned to face the paladin standing behind him, lifting the crown from its ash covered throne. Gently, he blew off the remainder of the ash that covered it, grasping it in both hands as he pivoted fully to face the man behind him.

Leeroy’s dark blue gaze, obscured as it was by the arrowhead helm he wore, turned from him to the crown: “You seem quite familiar with it.”

He nodded, his voice coming out a soft murmur.

“It used to belong to my father… Idalion Ebner.”

“Your father… He is the Old Iron King?”

Arcturus nodded again, brushing his thumb over the ruby that was studded into the crown. The death of Sir Alonne was enough to jolt his memory, buried as it had been in the very back of his head, the remorseful screams from the Old Iron King shaking them further from where it was concealed: “Aye, and I was his only son, the heir that he wished that one day would take from him his throne and further his conquests in this world.”

“Then what happened?”

The sorcerer swallowed. The scar on his throat throbbed, and the next set of memories returned, even though far slower than before: “I died… someone had cut my throat while I slept, then – ”

“You became an undead.” Leeroy supplied.

“So, it also seems that a lot of time had passed since I woke, since the last time I saw this kingdom, as well.” His gaze returned to the gleaming crown. His father had turned into a creature as well, a demon that looked as though it had crawled from the deepest depths of Izalith to haunt the dreams of anyone unfortunate enough to look upon his now far more gruesome visage.

“Then you should keep the crown.” The paladin’s hand squeezed his shoulder. Arcturus looked up at the man before him quizzically: why should he? This was but the remnants of a kingdom that had already passed into the great beyond, alongside of everyone else that he knew of. Not only that, it was he who bested the guardians that guarded this tower, including the blackened ashen idols that stood guard.

As though sensing the question that hung on the tip of his tongue, Leeroy added. “He would have wished for you to keep it as well, Arcturus. Perhaps your father made mistakes, but if there is anything that I can say for certain as an outsider, it is that this belongs to you, as it is your birthright.”

“Perhaps… yet I am but a forgotten king to a dead kingdom, heir to an empty throne that now means nothing.” He chuckled softly, though held it up and settled it onto his head. If only he could see him now, see the world now. How everything had changed. “A crown that won’t mean anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to get back into the swing of things, writing action and stuff that actually pertain to my Dark Souls headcanon universe/timeline instead of just mindless smut. This piece is mainly action writing practice, combined with a dash of my attempt to explain the background of my OC Bearer, as well as show a little of his relationship with the later Knight King Leeroy. Let me know how you think!


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